Three Poems

Lisa McCool-Grime

Harlequin Does a Handstand

dusted his chest and tapered downward.
The world: a sprinkle of dark hair
enough to carry the weight of
his virile body. His shoulders were broad.
Raquel drank in the sight of

a wind-swept shore,
a tidal wave slamming against,
through him. With the force
felt his own release roar.
He felt her shatter beneath him.

Was a single word: Boom.
Scrawled across the face.

Bottle of perfume on the dresser,
a spill of powder and an open
with every breath he took.
And firing his imagination
and sexy teasing his senses
permeated the room. Alluring.
Her wildflower scent

that nearly paralyzed
everything but the exquisite pleasure.
Her tongue wiped his mind clean of
innocent talent, of
his thighs, the clever torturous
vows, the tickle of her hair,
his good intentions, his strict.

And low and dangerous
dawn, his voice was deep
in the fragile stillness.
He scanned the quiet cobbled streets.

Yet Raquel sneaked right past.

Harlequin Bears the Illegitimate Child of Billy Collins

Yes, Holly was the salt of the earth. Each of her tender smiles
was the salt of the earth. Yes, Holly. Each of her tender smiles
made him want to kiss her and kill her, until her dark hair spilled
and made him want to kiss her, kill her until her dark hair spilled
the tender earth to him. Her want made of the holly, salt and hair
was her dark, her kill. Each kiss of her spilled until, yes, smiles

through his open fingers. He looked more like a shadow
through his open fingers. He looked more like a shadow
than a man. He’d never forced a woman, but with this kiss.
Then he’d forced a woman. Never a man, but with this kiss.
This man never looked but through a shadow he’d forced
open. His fingers like a woman. He, with more than a kiss.

The spear of her tongue tried valiantly dueling with his.
The spear of her tongue tried valiantly dueling with his
until he mastered her. Never tell a man your secrets
until he masters her. Never tell a man your secrets.
His secrets never mastered your tell of her with a tried
tongue. He, the valiantly dueling man until her spear

mastered his with a shadow. He fingers each of her, her
secrets, her salt kiss, her hair open like a yes and, dueling,
he looked through his valiantly forced man to the earth.
But he’d never tried a spear with her until this. Tell her
the kiss of a man smiles tender until the kill. Never want him.
Holly, your woman tongue made of dark was more than spilled.

Lisa McCool-Grime loves Sappho, collaborations and wallflower women. Her wallflower publications include Splinter Generation. Her collaborative work with Nancy Flynn can be read at Poemeleon. Tupelo press awarded one of her Sappho-inspired poems first place in their Fragments of Sappho contest.